


To Be Human

by Sp00py



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: An intense cuddle session, Chapter 5 Spoilers, Death, Loose Canon, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Reader is a Lost One, Sammy is delusional, idk if it’s rape but it’s smth, lost ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-18 20:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16524134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: You’re a Lost One in a world of nightmares. But not all is despair and darkness.Then you meet Sammy Lawrence.





	To Be Human

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Sammy/Reader and a story about a Lost One so here we are. Enjoy.

The world is ink, and you don’t know your own name. You exist. That’s all. You exist, and you hurt, and you just want it to _end_.

But it never does. Life is agony. This body isn’t your own; this world isn’t yours. It’s the Ink Demon’s. You’re nothing but a monster among many living in it, if this can be called living.

You wish you knew who you were before. Some do know who they are. Some know of this world outside; _home_ , they call it. Others just sit and cry and beat their heads against the walls as thought that will end the torment.

You, though? You wander. You yearn for something out there that you don’t even remember. Your past self, your own home, you don’t know. Your steps are slow and shuffling, body hunched in on itself, pain chronic and inescapable no matter where you go.

Sometimes the walls collapse under a deluge of ink, reveal new places that might lead to something you recall, something called an exit. _Where’s the exit_ ? _I want to leave_. You think these things. You might say them. Speech and thought are both equally futile here.

Everything is. There’s nothing in this world for you. You just want to leave. You want to leave, yet know you never will. You’ve never seen an exit, and you feel sure in your soul (or whatever remains of it, tattered and torn as it feels) that you would have recognized one if you’d found it.

So you wander, you search, your eyes never close. You’re so, so weary.

And then. Then you find your way to a strange, new place. Through pipes that drizzle ink and caves dipped in darkness. You wander, you search, you find — you find something. Others, the same yet different to those you know.

It’s almost a comfort. They are in their own throes of despair and madness, but they’re building a place for themselves in this world. They’re supporting one another, carving out new lives since their old ones were so cruelly ripped from them.

Humanity endures. The word sounds familiar. You guess that must be what you were, once. Human. Not monsters. You have never thought of it before, only the wrongness of your form. But you’re not a monster. Simply lost.

This is what you call yourselves: Lost Ones. You’ve lost so much, things which will never be regained, but now you have others. You have the yearning for something more. _Exit_. You’ve not fallen completely to despair.

New words come to you. This is home. This is life. There are things to do besides wallow. Fish in the murky depths of the river, build, write. Your vocabulary grows, your thoughts wind into places they’d never ventured before, though your memory remains as impenetrable as ever. Wherever the exit is, it’s not here, but that is okay. You’re no longer who you once were, so you must create who you are now. It’s…. It’s…. You don’t know the word. A brief flicker of _something_ you can’t capture, can’t contain. Faint and weak, like you are. But it’s bright in all this darkness.

It’s something that the words “He will set us free” brings, too. Not quite comfort, not quite escape. You’ve seen the writings on the wall. Sinners, creators, _him,_ whoever he is. A mad cacophony of phrases and sentiments. You don’t know who writes them, but they were prolific in the upper areas of the studio. Perhaps one day the writer would make their way to your home. Perhaps they could explain this feeling to you.

Perhaps, you think because thinking is the one luxury you have, you’ll invite them into your room, a place with a blanket on the floor, a mug, a candle. It even has a door. You could want for nothing else, and would like to share with them as you share with others. Swap words and thoughts, help more Lost Ones find their way down here, far away from angels and demons alike. A new life, one shrouded in the pain and misery that defines your existence, but yours. Nobody else’s.

This world is not meant for you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t survive in it. That you can’t, dare you think, thrive. You need your fellow Lost Ones, who the world rejects and hurts and hunts. You’re human, not beasts, not prey.

You continue to wander, but always return home. You’re searching for this person who writes the messages as well as escape. It might be with this Lost One. Freedom. To leave. An alien concept in your world of darkness and ink, but something you want so badly. You want to leave.

That must be a part of being human, too. Always wanting more. Knowing there is more. It’s a curse, a burden you and your fellows share. You live, you grow, and yet you _yearn_.

On your slow, meandering journey back, you come across a new sign, written by an unfamiliar hand. Hope.

You’ve never seen that word before. Hope. It fills you with something. That brightness burns a little stronger.

Hope. Hope. A new word. A name for this feeling. If there’s hope, there’s a way out. There’s an exit. He will set us free, he grants us hope. He grants _you_ hope. The opposite of despair.

You’ll bring this new information home. You’ll bear hope for the wretched souls.

When you arrive the town is silent. Empty. A vacuum. You’ve been gone an untold amount of time, as you are a slow-moving creature and your body always aches, and the world seems abandoned. No. Your home. It’s been touched by something horrific. You can feel it in the ink-thick air, in the quiet. They’re hiding.

Like hope, new words are written on the walls, but these are familiar. _Down here we’re all sinners. He will set us free._ A new soul has joined you. The one you’ve been looking for?

He stands at the far end of the town, back to you, head tilted upward. Something covers his face. Unlike your starved, twisted form, his is different and clothed like a Boris. He’s not like you.

Some aren’t. You’re in no position to judge another soul down here.

When he turns to you, his face is hidden behind a Bendy mask. Inscrutable. He has an axe in hand.

“My Lord,” he growls, voice rough.

Is he…. is he talking to you? You’re a nonentity to creatures like Boris and searchers. You only matter to other Lost Ones, and yourself.

“My Lord, why?” He reaches out to you. You can’t move. Even if you wanted to, your body is incapable of anything but slow movements and pathetic swaying.

He touches you with the tips of his fingers, hand trembling. His fingers slide through the ink of your face, down to your neck. “You’ve returned to me. Why do you play with your prophet so?”

You say nothing. You don’t understand his words at all. He’s touching you, stroking you. Nobody touches a Lost One, not like this. Contact is death. Contact is a return to the well of voices. You can feel this person’s desperation, creeping along your bones, into your mind and thoughts.

You step back.

He drops the axe and grabs both of your frail arms in his hands. No no no, you can _feel_ him, and it’s wrong. Sammy. You can feel his name, he knows it, he knows so much about the world. _He will set me free_ . An image of the Ink Demon comes unbidden to your mind. This is the ‘he’ the words promised. Lies. Lies lies _lies_. The Ink Demon frees nobody, only drags them back to the well. You’ve seen it happen in your wandering. You’ve seen other creatures succumb.

“No, my Lord. Bendy. Don’t leave me again. I’ve failed you, I deserve what you did to me. I know this now. Let me worship you.”

You aren’t Bendy. You’re you. You wish you had the words to say this. All you can manage is a faint ‘no’ that dies before it’s born. You can’t return to the abyss. You want to stay yourself, whatever you are. Whatever the nightmare. You’ve worked so hard for this home you’ve helped build, and now it’s desecrated. Now you are, too.

Sammy yanks you forward and you stumble, fall. He sinks down with you. His hands begin to roam your face and shoulders, worshipful and sickening.

“My Lord Bendy, my God,” he murmurs, seeing something other than you before him. “Your inky form is so beautiful and terrifying. I praise you, I worship you. My Savior, I am so grateful to you for showing me the wrongness of my path. No sheep is worthy of you, only a prophet. Only me.”

He slumps against you and your form can’t sustain the weight. Your inks are mingling and tangling thoughts. You aren’t Bendy, you think. You aren’t. Please, stop. Stop. It hurts. Where’s the exit, you want to leave. You want to escape this madness.

Sammy doesn’t seem able to hear your thoughts, not nearly so clearly as you can hear his, which is nothing but roiling obsession and need. Need for his Lord. Need for the Ink Demon.

You try to push him off and only succeed in slipping the suspenders from his shoulders. There’s no strength to you; you’re naught but skeleton and ink. You’re not a demon. You’re a human. It’s hopeless. A new word. The despair rolls back in.

“Yes, my Lord. I understand now. I understand your despair, your rage. Having to subsist on such paltry offerings. I will be your offering now. I will be your sacrifice.”

He crawls on you, muttering to himself about sacrifice and pleasing you — pleasing Bendy — and his mask looms large in your glowing vision.

He presses against you, melding your bodies together into one inky mass of limbs and pain and longing and fear. You’re both afraid, but for very different reasons. The Ink Demon has touched him, imbued him with a madness. Remade him from the ink and remade him _wrong_. You shouldn’t be touching him. It’s tainted and terrifying, being drawn into his insanity.

“My Lord, my Lord,” Sammy murmurs against you, the ink of your face staining his mask as he presses it to you. “I worship You. I need You. My inky Savior. Thank You for this body. I was a fool to despise it. A fool and weak, and yet You let me touch You.”

You you you, it’s all you hear from him, but this isn’t _you_. He’s speaking to a being who isn’t here. You just want it to end. To drown in the ink river, forget who you are, forget this disgusting sensation and violation, this mixing and staining of unlike inks.

You, unlike Sammy, have no expectations of salvation. Not from the Ink Demon, not from anyone now. The others cower and tremble, hide away to protect themselves as they should. Not a one will save you. No one can. It goes on and on. The nightmare continues, unending.

Sammy pulls away. He separates from you strand by inky strand, and the world grows blessedly quiet. You lay there, half-broken from his treatment. You feel unformed, disoriented. There’s a sudden clarity to what you are, but it’s not yours. It’s Sammy’s. He’s realized.

“No, no, no, you’re not my Lord, deceptive little sheep,” he mutters. He stumbles over to the axe and picks it up. “Sheep, sheep, sheep,” he says, speaking more to himself. You’re unable to move, broken and dissolved, barely a person anymore. “Shame on you for tricking me, touching me with your blasphemous thoughts. You’re unworthy. You’re nothing. My Lord _will_ save me. You, though…”

Sammy approaches. You’re afraid to die. It’s such a _human_ emotion, you’re almost glad to feel it. The existential dread of nothingness, though you know there’s only the well of voices and horrible, horrible rebirth. There is no death for you. There is no escape. You just want to leave this place, you just want an exit. Where’s the exit? Where’s the exit?

Sammy swings the axe.


End file.
